


any way you want it (baby, that's the way i need it)

by livbartlet



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6027790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livbartlet/pseuds/livbartlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pointless fangirly indulgence. There is no point to this except CHRIS EVANS...REASONS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	any way you want it (baby, that's the way i need it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azewewish (Brenda)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/gifts).



"What you need," Pooch offers (unsolicited, by the way; he has not been asking for advice), "is a woman who likes that Star Wars space nerdy stuff. Then you might - just  _might_ \- be able to talk to her."  
  
"In complete sentences, no less," Clay adds.  
  
"And without tripping over yourself. It's cute, really, the tripping, but it's not getting you anywhere." Aisha finishes today's _Unsolicited_ Advice Column for Jensen.  
  
Cougar nods sagely, which is irritating as hell. Or would be, if this was a thing Jensen was at all concerned about. If he cared at all about, oh, maybe, oh just forget it. He genuinely gives zero fucks about Cougar's luck with the ladies.  
  
"That's sweet, guys. I'm really touched. But, you know, life on the run from Max and all and I just don't have time." He flips them off with a grin, then adjusts his glasses and tries to look serious (it never works, but he always tries). "Back to work, everyone."  
  
  
\- - -  
  
  
Another job, another 5-second encounter with someone's random (and completely gorgeous - why do all the bad people in the world have these smoking hot assistants?) secretary in which he trips over no less than _all_ of his words.  
  
Jensen is hopeless; he knows it. The team knows it. It sucks.  
  
  
\- - -  
  
  
"Chat rooms, maybe?" Clay starts it this time.  
  
"Too busy hacking satellites at the moment." He actually is, you know, hacking a satellite at that very moment.  
  
"What, you can't multitask? Who here just stepped off the stupid train?"  
  
"We all know you can multitask." It's a purr more than a comment, and it's great Aisha feels so comfortable giving him shit, but god, she could be more subtle about it.  
  
"Hey! That is...private. That is my personal time. And what I do with my personal time and a computer is...none of your business." And who is he kidding? Everyone knows everyone's business around here. The things Clay and Aisha get up to at...okay, he's just not going there, that is a can of trouble he is not opening.  
  
"None of your business," he repeats. And considers for a moment finding a chat room where maybe a hopeless tech nerd could type his way to true...for fuck's sake, not love, the internet is a hotbed of hook-ups and porn and things that are definitely not love, unless he has suddenly become J. Smith of Middle America and Normal Jobs and Shirts and Ties, not Jensen of The Losers, Hacker Extraordinaire, Good with Guns, Definitely Not Good with Women.  
  
And that's the kind of thinking that sends him trolling through the servers of no less than 7 dating websites, wondering if there really is a magic algorithm for compatibility and 3 good dates with strong possibilities for fun sexy times.  
  
  
\- - -  
  
  
Collectively, they have a so-called life - more of a job, survival imperative kind of thing - but fighting Max (being good guys. they are the good guys. why is he the only good guy not getting laid?) fills the bulk of their time, right. Right. It's just that, as individuals, he cannot say the same. They are each lacking in the Actual Life department.  
  
This fact becomes painfully apparent to Jensen through a series of events rather like this:  
  
1.  
Clay suggest they all go _out_ drinking.  
  
  
2.  
Aisha tries to do a wardrobe makeover. "A button-up shirt. It wouldn't kill you. Might even help."  
  
Jensen looks down at one of his favorite t-shirts. "What's wrong with Imperial Walkers?"  
  
"For the record, I did attempt to help."  
  
  
3.  
Cougar says more than 4 words. Cougar gets wordy and almost poetic about what women like and it's all in your eyes and how respect yourself and them too and also very much in how you move. Which is how the 30-second Latin Dance Lesson of Doom happens.  
  
"It's possible I am scarred for life."  
  
  
4.  
They all actually go out drinking and dancing.  
  
  
\- - -  
  
  
Dancing.  
  
(He does not say this, because contrary to popular opinion, he does know how to keep his mouth shut at critical times, but - oh my god, you took me dancing? this is mean, i am so in the minority here, the white guy who can't dance and all you wonderful, helpful people have brought me dancing. thank you not so much.)  
  
To his horror (HORROR. Truly, there are not words.), dancing becomes a _thing_. A regular, at least once a week, no matter where they are, no matter how busted up or tired they are...they go dancing.  
  
"Helps with that volatility problem," Clay tells him once. As if Jensen doesn't _know_ that this is all happening because his sex life/social life (or lack thereof) has become the Team Science Project.  
  
"Yeah, how's that working out for you, boss?"  
  
"Hasn't shot me yet."  
  
"She _is_ a bad ass chick, no lying. Does she have any friends? Like, you know...bad-ass female friends who might...?"  
  
"Shut up, Jensen. Back to the dance floor. Silver halter top at twelve o'clock. Been checking you out."  
  
  
\- - -  
  
  
  
As it turns out, getting laid is not the problem. Go out dancing enough, get your groove on enough, and you can have all the hook-ups you want, especially when Cougar stays out of sight. And his still-learning-how-to-dance white boy hips have other rhythms down just fine and he is, actually, _ripped_ , which he sometimes forgets but which fact silver-halter-top girl breathes enthusiastically as he's lifting her up, pinning her against the wall and they're getting their _groove_ on, if you know what he means.  
  
Talking, though. Words, speaking, actual articulation of intelligent thought - he's not dumb, he's articulation impaired. Talking is still a problem.  
  
  
\- - -  
  
  
He hacks and disguises and picks his way into Langley's biggest off-site server farm, and when he opens the door, he, is well, frankly, shocked.  
  
His gun is out before he consciously thinks of it (lesson. learned.) "Who are you."  
  
"Who are _you_?" Unknown venomous (and hot) hacker chick asks back.  
  
"I asked first."  
  
"Not telling, sorry." She shrugs and turns her back to him (does he not look dangerous enough?), finishing something with a few keystrokes on a small keyboard.  
  
He honestly cannot decide whether he should shoot her or not. Could be they're on the same side, what with the breaking into a CIA facility. Could be she'll turn around and shoot him before he makes up his mind one way or the other, and wouldn't that be a way to go. Could he ask her to kiss him first? A kiss before dying, because that's a thing, right? Or maybe she's evil, as opposed to good and just working outside the established framework of what is legal and what is not, and she's seen his face. Or maybe he could sink his fingers into her long dark hair and drown in her and then nothing would matter.  
  
"Hey, hacker boy," she smirks at him as she tucks the last of her gear away into a bag that looks too big for what he's seen her working with.  
  
"Yeah." His gun is still pointed at her, yay for him.  
  
"Might wanna get out of here, in say, 60-ish seconds." And then she's gone.  
  
And then he sees it. Blinking red lights are never good. Never, ever good.  
  
"Shit, shit," he's running now, "it's gonna blow. Shit. Run faster, asshole." Being on actual fire is actually not in his life plan.  
  
He watches the place blow from a barely-safe distance - a series of small explosions culminating in 4th-of-July-type fireworks that knock him on his ass.  
  
"What the fuck?" It's Clay, slightly annoyed, but still doing a visual check for blood or injuries.  
  
"I think I'm in love, boss."


End file.
